


The Proper Pronunciation of R

by Aamalysstuff



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal Sex, Arthur is a dragon, Biting, Choking, Dragon sex, Francis is the Dragon Sacrifice, Hair-pulling, Human/Monster Romance, Intercrural Sex, Language Barrier, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Shapeshifting, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21549199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aamalysstuff/pseuds/Aamalysstuff
Summary: A dragon has recently taken up residence in a cave outside a small French town. All the townsfolk are rightfully terrified by the prospect of dying in a fiery inferno caused by dragon fire. The solution to appease him? Offer him a sacrifice, of course!Francis ends up being a very reluctant sacrifice to a very annoyed English dragon.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 158





	The Proper Pronunciation of R

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I'm posting shit again. But this time, with a disclaimer - 
> 
> A few weeks ago, I was having a lovely inspiring chat with some folks - [christieanne ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/christieanne/profile) suggested Arthur the Shape-shifting Dragon AU and [Chartini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartini/profile) suggested Francis the Human Sacrifice and I couldn't think about anything else for a couple of days. I realized I had to write it, if I want any sort of peace with myself. I'm crediting them for putting this idea in my head.

Francis Bonnefoy had been all of sixteen when he had noticed that Monsieur Duchamp’s eyes were lingering a bit too fondly over him. And Monsieur Duchamp’s young wife, seemingly unaware of her husband’s own fondness of him, seemed to smile at him too much, fluttered her eyes lashes and blushed prettily when he talked to her.

What an interesting turn of events, he decided. While at that age, he wasn’t particularly inclined to seek out opportunities such as this, when Madame Duchamp asked him into her house and took him to her bed, he gleefully submitted himself to her charms. She undressed him, pushed him onto her bed and straddled his hips, and he discovered that such attention from a beautiful woman was an absolutely fantastic way to pass the time.

Of course, then Monsieur Duchamp came home early and found the two of them in bed together, stark naked and flushed and looking incredibly debouched. However, instead of pulling out a sword or a mallet or something to defend his own marriage and his wife’s virtue, his eyes took too much time to run over Francis’s skin. And Francis grinned at him, his hand on Madame Duchamp’s naked, soft flesh, and said – “ _Maybe you would also like to sample what your Lady Wife was enjoying before you came in_?”

The sheer audacity of the suggestion made both of the Duchamps gasp in outrage, but as it turns out, Monsieur Duchamp really did not like letting his wife be the only one enjoying herself from a treat they both desired.

It turned out for the best for everyone involved, clearly. Madame and Monsieur Duchamp were great company, and they both took turns in showing young Francis Bonnefoy what lovely surprises the pleasures of the flesh could offer, how women tightened around him when they sighed and gasped and moaned, how men felt they pushed inside him and made his knees tremble.

After that – how could he ever stay away from such thrilling experiences?

He learned how to seduce young maidens into falling into his arms, how he could make proud men beg for his attention _. Spare the cruelty of having to live without your kisses_ , one of them had said, so Francis had obliged him. However, it was all disappointment and sadness when the young man thought Francis was only his. He was terribly distraught when he found Francis in bed with his older sister.

For Francis, love and pleasure where things that were meant to be shared with the world. His love and the pleasure he wanted to offer his partners could never be stifled, held back or chained. He saw himself as something akin to a bee – it was his duty to fly around from flower to flower and teach them all about the unending well of pleasure that could be explored within the human body.

Naturally – not everyone in town shared his own opinions about how love was a free domain for everyone to explore. And while his bed was never empty, while men and women confessed their undying love for him and begged him for his own heart in return, he kept indulging them but never swore it back. Unfortunately for him, undying love that gets refused and pushed to the side tends to morph into bitterness and resentment, and Francis soon found out that while many of those men and women still wanted his company, they didn’t like him much.

Far be it from him to let that deter him. Francis Bonnefoy kept on being Francis Bonnefoy.

And the people in town, while they looked at him with some sort of awe, while the women swooned and sighed when he passed by and the men fisted their hands with restraint, they all saw him like a sort of unknown factor within the peace of their town. Years and years went by and everyone in town developed a sort of conviction, that maybe things would be easier, fewer hearts broken, less inflamed passions, if a thrice damned devil like Francis Bonnefoy wouldn’t be around to tempt them all.

What could they do?

Around the time of Francis’s twenty fifth birthday – he remembered because he was meaning to celebrate it out and about – he was outside and suddenly, the day turned dark. A great shadow blocked the sky and passed over them. Collectively, everyone in town looked up. Gasps and shouts and terrible cries followed – doom passing over them, huge open wings and heat.

“ _Mon Dieu_!” Francis’s young companion gasped. “Is that a…”

“A _Dragon_.” 

* * *

A dragon. A Dragon.

Everyone in town felt desperation and fear clawing at their hearts. They all flocked to the priest to confess their sin and then to the tavern to drink away their final hours. All of them were quite certain that it was only a matter time before they were all doomed to perish into a blazing, burning inferno brought forth by dragon fire.

“Whatever shall we do?” They cried out.

Monsieur Duchamp, who had been elected as mayor several years prior, asked the good people of their small town to gather to the City Hall, for a never before seen assembly. They were all there so they could decide what do to, come up with a hopefully viable solution on how to avert the impending apocalypse.

All of them knew about the existence of Dragons, but Dragons were mystical beasts that didn’t live in fair France. They were a plague from beyond the Sea, something the British Isles were cursed with. Obviously the British were filthy heathens that worshiped the Dark Arts, there was no other explanation for why they had such a mercurial and terrifying, fire breathing fauna. For the better part of five centuries, Dragons were extinct on the Continent and they kept to themselves on their rocky little islands.

But now there was a dragon, in France, absolutely none of them knew how they supposed to deal with this. How does one appease a dragon?

“We can give it gold! Dragons like gold, don’t they? Maybe it will be kind enough to let us live our life in peace.” One man suggested.

“Gold? How much gold? We’re living in hard times, Monsieur – the King is planning to embark on another war, all our gold is heading out to Paris, taken by the tax collectors.”

“The dragon is already stealing our sheep and our cows! If he keeps this up, we’ll be left with nothing for winter!”

“What if it starts stealing our children?” One woman cries out, distraught and with tears running down her cheeks. She was clutching her new born baby to her breast, a daughter and a son grabbing either side of her dress.

“Monsieur Duchamp, Mayor, _please_. You’re a father yourself! Think of our children!”

The City Hall erupted in screams, pleas and shouts, everyone starting to imagine how terrible it would be, should the hungry dragon start descending upon their town to steal away their babes. Mayor Duchamp was, rightly so, overwhelmed by the amount of shouting and pleading that was going on around him. He looked on hopelessly, until the old Priest sat up from where he was seated and started talking above everyone else.

“My good people, listen. Clearly a dragon is a thing born out of hellfire. In these dark times, we must all turn our eyes to God and start praying.”

“Praying, _bah_!” An old voice countered him. The Wise Woman of the town, the one old hag that lived on the outskirts in a little hut, she stood up and gave them all a crooked smile. “Praying aint gonna help us at all, _Messieurs_. A dragon is a thing of old magic, and it must be appeased using the old ways.”

All of them stood silently and regarded the old hag. She only had three teeth in her mouth, and people said she mated with the Devil when the moon was full. However, she was also able to provide certain types of medicine that no one else had to offer – things such as potions that were meant to raise the passions of women, roots of plants that prevented pregnancies, tea blends that were meant to help men preform their duties as a husbands.

While no one wanted to admit they went to her for help – all of them did. And they knew her craft worked. As a result, when the old hag started talking again, all of them were waiting with bated breath about what she had to say.

“Speak, Madame, speak,” Monsieur Duchamp urged her, “What do we need to do to appease the dragon?”

The priest started to protest, saying that this was no better than getting in bed with the Satan himself, the old ways of magic were not to be performed on such a grand scale. He could look away from a potion here and there, to help with libido and potency, but this?

No matter, they did not care. This matter was of grave importance. Dying by dragon fire was something none of them were willing to do, even it avoiding it came at the expense of churchly etiquette. Surely God would forgive them for it.

“We must offer it a sacrifice!” The old woman announce and she started cackling while everyone in the hall fell silent.

A sacrifice? A human sacrifice?

Surely that price was too much to pay. Their community was tightly knit and loving towards each other, none of them would be willing to throw their neighbors or their loved ones to be potentially eaten by a dragon. It was too terrible a price.

Plus – what kind of sacrifice would you even offer a dragon?

Silence reigned over the assembly of good people present there, until it was rudely interrupted by a charming, lilting voice that everyone knew about.

“Well, I suppose that leaves us in a bit of a pickle, doesn’t it?”

Francis Bonnefoy had the uncanny ability to say the best thing to infuriate absolutely anyone at precisely the right time. It was a habit that determined many men and women to find a way to forcefully shut up by any means necessary, usually by ensuring that his mouth was occupied with something else.

This was not the time and place for any such activities, however, as Fate herself would have it – at precisely that moment the Sun shined through the windows of city hall. A blinding light reflected through the windows and it caught in Francis’s beautiful golden hair.

The man had been blessed with better hair than most women, and he had taken advantage of it, letting it frame his face, and in the right light, it looked like fine threads of spun… _gold_.

Lovers of all ages and genders had come up with that exact metaphor when they were running their hands through it and most times, they followed it up by saying he had eyes like… _sapphires_.

Dragons liked sapphires, didn’t they? They also really, really, really liked gold, didn’t they?

Suddenly, all the broken hearts, the spurned lovers, the women that threw themselves at him and begged him to marry them, the men that fell to their knees and asked him to run away together, all the people those people that spent days crying after the Don Juan that showed them a night of pleasure only to run towards the next one –

Well.

Fate was, as they said, a damn, rotten whore.

All of the people present had turned to glare at him, but as it stood, they also, collectively, came to the same conclusion. It didn’t matter who said it first, because the sentiment was the same –

“Sacrifice _him_ to the damn dragon.”

* * *

“I am an unwilling participant to this whole endeavor! Never did I consent to any of this, I am appalled that you would treat me in such a way! Haven’t I been good to all of you?”

Francis kept protesting, even though he knew it was a hopeless case. The townfolks had descended upon him, tied him up by his hands and said, “ _Well, time to sacrifice you to the dragon._ ”

No amount of protest was going to save him from this. How cruel they all were!

His complaints fell to deaf years. His captors had tied his wrists together and they were pulling along, through the woods and up the mountain, to the cave where the dragon had chosen to make his lair.

Francis never thought he would see the day when being tied up by the wrists and manhandled into submission would an _unpleasant_ experience.

Context mattered. Being dragged away by a mob of people, in front with Monsieur Duchamp, with the intention of being fed to a dragon.

“Honestly, Monsieur Duchamp,” he addressed the man leading the little pack of people, “I thought dragons required a _virgin sacrifice._ I think you can attest I am no virgin!”

“Someone please gag him.” The Mayor himself said, and one of people shoved a piece of fabric in his mouth.

Francis tried to shout around the gag, but the effect wasn’t exactly dignified, so he stopped.

“There, there, love. I don’ think dragons have such qualms.” An older woman said. “Might appreciate a bit of a different taste?”

This was so utterly hopeless. He wanted to cry, but he wasn’t about to give any of them the satisfaction. _Non_ , Francis Bonnefoy would not leave this world a _coward_.

Sure, he might have a nice breakdown, with crying and shouting and begging, when the hungry, fire breathing beast would descend upon him. But that was going to be something personal, strictly between him and the dragon.

All too soon, they arrived at their destination. The Dragon Lair.

Truthfully, it was only a cave, dug deep into the crest of the mountain. Inside, it was pitch blackness. The people all fell silent, until Monsieur Duchamp grabbed hold of the rope and pulled Francis forward, bravely stepping in front of the lair of the beast.

“Oh, Great Dragon. We have brought to you a gift, so you may leave us all in peace.” The man shouted into the darkness of the cave.

No one breathed – there wasn’t a sound from inside.

“Maybe you should try again?” Someone suggested, after a few minutes of silence. Francis rolled his eyes, quietly hoped that the dragon was off doing dragon things like terrorizing the villages of the coast and eating sheep whole.

However, they had come all this way. What were they going to do? Turn back?

Monsieur Duchamp clearned his throat and tried again, with a much higher volume this time.

“Great Dragon! We’re here you give you a sacrifice!”

Then, from inside the darkness of the cave, a roar. The sound of a great, lumbering beast, heavy steps, the sound coming closer and closer.

Most of the people lost their courage and fled to the woods before they got the chance to see it. The mob scattered, and Monsieur Duchamp himself looked much less brave now. When the Dragon emerged from his dark lair, the man was just about ready to throw himself to his knees in front of it.

Green scales that caught in the sunlight like emeralds, it moved slowly and deliberately. The green eyes of the creature were serpentine, regarding them with something vaguely like bored annoyance, frowning and huffing smoke from both its nostrils. It smelled the air around them and lowered its long, slender neck, until the head was at level with them.

Francis straightened his back while the Dragon regarded him with cold disinterest, Monsieur Duchamp let out a yelp when they both heard the great beast make a sound, a deep rumble that started within its body.

_“Why are you here, bothering me while I’m resting? It’s not polite to shout at dragons. Don’t they teach you that sort of thing in France?”_

_Oh_.

Both Francis and Monsieur Duchamp looked at each other and blinked. The Dragon definitely spoke to them. However, the Dragon spoke to them in that barbaric, rough language they spoke on the British Isles, and it was a well-known fact that no Frenchman who had any amount of pride deemed himself low enough to learn how to speak it.

And everyone knew Frenchmen were never short on pride.

_Mon Dieu, I’m going to die at the hands of creature that speaks…English._

It was completely disheartening thought.

“ _Oi, I’m talking to you!_ ” The Dragon said, and to accentuate whatever it was, the dragon flapped its massive wings once. Oddly enough, while the wing span was terrifying and elegant, the movement reminded Francis of an enraged rooster. “ _Really know, I was in the middle of something.”_

Then the Dragon sighed, and another puff of smoke came out of its snot.

By now, all the townsfolk that had gleefully brought Francis here to his head had scattered away, it was only him and the Mayor sitting in front of this thing. Out of fear that they might potentially annoy the beast more than it already was and it decided that it wanted to roast them both and eat them, Monsieur Duchamp shoved Francis hard towards the Dragon and decided to make a run for it towards the woods.

He had been so busy to stare at the beast that the shove took him completely by surprise. He stumbled forward inelegantly and fell into the massive body of the beast, face first into the green scales.

“Sacrifice!”

Monsieur Duchamp bellowed behind him, as he was busy running away.

 _Coward,_ Francis thought. _I regret I ever let you deflower me._

However, as soon as the thought crossed his mind bitterly, he was left there having to deal that he was on his knees in front of a damn dragon, and he was, most likely, about to get eaten.

Francis dared to look up and he only saw shining, glimmering scales.

“ _Good God, the French truly are barbarians_.”

And with that, something in the atmosphere around them shifted, like a crinkling of magic that sent a not-unpleasant shiver down Francis’s spine. It was as if space shifted and mass changed its position, and then Francis wasn’t staring at a dragon anymore.

He was looking up at something that was a…man?

A very annoyed looking man with horrifying eyebrows that still had those green scales on the sides of his face, down his throat and across his shoulders, but the scale to skin ratio was heavily skewed towards human looking skin. He still huffed a smoke though, so maybe it was a good idea to remember that.

He also still had wings, and a tail, and it would have been very impressive if this had been the first impression, but right now, Francis was more inclined to stick to his angry rooster imagery. Really – when one scales down to less than a quarter of their initial stature, they tended to lose some of their _grandeur_.

However, while a huge green dragon was frightening, a man about the same size as Francis wasn’t going to eat him in one go, so at least for the moment, he was confident that he wasn’t in eminent danger.

And he spoke English, that helped to ease him down a few pegs as well.

Francis pulled the fabric that had been so rudely stuffed in him mouth, threw it on the ground and stood up on shaky legs.

They both stared at each other. Francis regarded him with interest, and found the Oh Great, Powerful Dragon to be….a bit lacking.

The wings were an interesting addition, with how they twitched, and the tail was doing the sort of movement cats did when they were about to stick their claws in your hand. Other than that, the scattered scales looked like freckles, if one’s skin turned into shiny green glass when it was exposed to the sun too much.

But he was about the same size as Francis, and on the skinnier side, like he preferred eat croissants and stay inside, rather than eat stake and plow the field. Francis decided to try his luck, extended a finger and poked him in the belly.

_“What in the seven hells do you think you’re doing, man?”_

Just as Francis had suspected – _soft_.

“They gave me as a sacrifice to _you_?”

_“Bloody hell, please tell me you speak English.”_

“How am I supposed to be a sacrifice to someone that looks like you?”

_“Oh my Lord, you don’t speak English, do you? You just speak bloody French, I hate French.”_

At this point, even though his wrists were still bound and technically the man could steal turn back into a dragon to eat him, Francis was beginning to feel annoyed as well. A naked, skinny man – even though he had wings and a tail – was not something Francis felt he threatened by.

However – there was one thing that Francis noticed during his inspection of the…dragon. And once that stood out, it was very difficult to notice anything else.

Apart from the wings and the tail and the scales, the man looked very human. If he had been dressed and you couldn’t see that the wings were coming straight out of his body, then maybe you could believe it was some sort of elaborate costume. He was not dressed – he was, in fact, very naked. And Francis considered himself a fine _connoisseur_ of the naked people.

There was no way you would believe he was human, considering the frightening and dragonesque anatomy he had between his legs. So Francis, he…stared.

When it came to pleasuring women, fine creatures as they were, appropriate length was needed, but what you truly needed was girth, and nothing could bet motion and density. Francis thought he himself was quite lucky in that department, as considered he had the perfect amount of length and girth, and the necessary experience to have perfected movement as well.

When it came to picking his male partners, he was more inclined to go for substantial length and girth, deeming them to be a challenge. Francis Bonnefoy was no coward, and in all his days of jumping from one bed to another, he had yet to meet a male partner that was _too much_ for him. He was a firm believer in the fact that there was no such thing as the impossible, and with patience and dedication, one could ride out even the toughest challenge.

One disadvantage that came with human anatomy, though, was the fact that _intense challenges_ sometimes were attached to mere mortals, that had a limited supply of blood, and sometimes they tended to be disappointingly…. _squishy_. Not soft, but it was a bit of a struggle to get something very large very hard.

While Francis himself was a firm believer that having qualms about the gender of your partner was stupid, there was an intensely male curiosity that suddenly awakened in him.

Something that was very large and very thick even while it was flaccid, even though it looked nothing like any of dicks Francis had ever seen – could it possibly get truly hard?

_“I am very close to roasting you, if you continue to stare.”_

But Francis didn’t pay any mind to it, because he was too busy staring at his fascinating anatomy. _Dragon scales_. Where those bumpy? Was there even enough blood in him for it?

And here, Francis Bonnefoy’s unique talent of saying infuriating things came out to rear its ugly head. It was fueled by his curiosity, both as a man and as a hedonist that spent his free time making women and men come by his talents.

“Are dragons perpetually flaccid, or does that thing ever properly rise up to meet a challenge head on?”

While the Dragon man didn’t understand French, there was really no need to understand anything, because Francis took it upon himself to motion with his still bound hands towards he general vicinity of the dragon penis.

He felt he made himself understood, judging by the indignant shout that followed his question. The dragon instantly went completely red in the face. He bent down swiftly, picked up the piece of fabric Francis has discarded, and promptly shoved it back into his mouth.

_Oh, Mon Dieu, not this again._

Hadn’t he spent enough time already being gagged?

_“I’m inclined to think you have no idea when to shut up.”_

And with that, the man picked up the rope that was binding Francis’s wrists and started pulling him roughly back towards the cave.

* * *

* * *

Dragons don’t eat people. They know better than that.

Why would you eat people when you have some many other, better options around? Sheep or goat, the occasional pig or a cow, those were still the go-to choices for Dragons. Arthur had an intense fondness for certain types of man-made things such as sweets and bread – he tried making his own bread, but it was easier to buy it. He wasn’t about to eat the people that provided him with his favorite treats.

This whole nasty rumor about dragons eating people and needing human sacrifices wasn’t based in any sort of current reality. Were there dragons in present day that ate people? Not as far as he knew. Had there been dragons that ate people in the past? In the distant past, sure, there may have been one or two bloodthirsty war lords that ate people, but overall, it had always been considered uncouth, plebian and uncivilized eat humans.

Back home in Britain, they still did the “ _virgin sacrifice_ ” ritual, but truthfully, it was less about “feasting on the flesh of young maidens” and more an opportunity for drunken debauchery. It was one big festival with scantly clad men and women that got horrifyingly drunk and proceeded to celebrate….things. As humans are sometimes known to do.

And the virgins were never really _virgins,_ what was a dragon supposed to do with a virgin? If you haven’t tried human-on-human sex first and get used to _that,_ how in the world were they supposed to take on dragon anatomy?

Believe it or not, dragons weren’t sadists. Or at least Arthur wasn’t.

No one wanted to see their partners cry and sob because you were accidentally hurting them with your dick. Or at least Arthur didn’t. Humans were generally overly fragile things and for that exact reason, Arthur decided it was better for his own sanity to swear off from ever partaking in that sort of activity with them.

He was better off leaving the drunken debauchery to his older siblings. They had insisted, though, that it wasn’t a generally human _problem_ that they weren’t able to ride dragon dick. It was, most likely, an _Arthur_ problem.

“You probably just need some lessons on how to handle humans.” That was his damn _Father’s_ suggestion, and there was something so completely embarrassing about having one of your parents suggest that you simply didn’t know how to have sex with humans. “Being good in bed in a skill, my boy, it has to be trained like everything else.”

Well, with that lovely piece of advice out of the way and not enough alcohol in England to erase that conversation out his head, Arthur had to admit to himself that maybe he really wasn’t cut out for that sort of life-style. He didn’t really like the festival season either.

“But Artie!” His brother Alistair cried out, red wings twitching and tail swooshing, “What are you gonna do? Festival season is six months a year.”

“I was thinking I might go and follow the old family tradition.”

“But Art – the Kirkland clan _established_ the tradition of Human-Dragon relations, free flowing wine and spreading good energy through the union of bodies.”

Arthur sighed, felt a headache starting to take root between his eyebrows. He emptied his pint of ale, set it back on the table with more force than it was necessary. Looked at his older brother seriously and said,

“Alistair, I’m talking about the _other_ family tradition.”

It took a second for his brother to really understand, but then realization dawned on his features.

“You mean…?”  
  
“Exactly!” Arthur confirmed, feeling gleeful and excited about his brilliant idea, “I’m going to go terrorize the _French_.”

* * *

By local British dragon standards, Arthur might have been better at terrorizing than he was at pleasuring, but that didn’t make a highly proficient dragon.

Luckily, the French were more easily spooked and they had lived in blissful oblivion when it came to dragons, what with Arthur’s kind being extinct there. However, one thing that Arthur quickly found out was that France had some excellent, abandoned Dragon Lairs carved in the mountains, complete with dragon hoard and thermal water basins. It was all empty and free for the taking, and Hoarding was _so_ easy when you didn’t have to compete with anyone else for the gold.

It took him no time whatsoever to amass a completely _fantastic_ hoard, and at the rate he was going, raiding other abandoned lairs and all, he was on his merry way to doubling or even tripling his riches in the next few months.

To top it all off, it was peaceful here. No older brothers to nag him, no Mother and Father gazing at him sadly because he was never going to find himself a mate, no humans throwing themselves at him, only to run away afterwards. Definitely a good experience. Just him and his hoard. Who would have thought – France was a nice, relaxing place.

At least, it had been a nice, relaxing place for a while. Until a pack of townsfolk from nearby showed up screaming and shouting at the entrance of his Lair. They brought him a man, bound and gagged, threw him at Arthur and then they all proceeded to run away screaming.

So Arthur was left with the man – what was he even supposed to do with him? The initial plan had been to intimidate him a bit and then send him away – but where was he supposed to send him away? The townspeople had brought him to Arthur as a sacrifice – not the _fun_ kind of sacrifice, a real sacrifice, meant to be eaten and everything. He sincerely doubted anyone would go back to such a place.

He didn’t send the Frenchman away, but he wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to do with him. The other man didn’t seem inclined to run away either, so he was casually lounging around Arthur’s Lair, complaining and ranting in fucking French, taking long baths in the hot water pools that Arthur’s cave had.

Proper Dragon Lairs always had hot water pools and they were all always cozy and toasty. Dragons loved to soak in warm water. Frenchmen were the same, it seemed, so Arthur was at a loss on how he was supposed to deal with this situation. He’d never kept humans around before.

At least the man wasn’t completely useless – when Arthur brought back rabbits to cook and eat them, the other had taken them out of Arthur’s hands with a scoff, proceeded to skin them and cook them and it resulted in the best damn Rabbit Stew Arthur had ever tasted. Venison and beef, too, it seemed like he was an outrageously gifted cook and really, Arthur was somewhat willing to deal with casually annoying preening Frenchmen, if they were willing to cook for him.

_I could always gag him?_

But really, he wasn’t about to do that. Being alone was all fine and dandy, but it tended to get a bit boring after a while. He was also reluctant to go out there and properly terrorize French folk, because they might decide one Sacrifice wasn’t enough, and Arthur couldn’t handle Francis, he could not handle another one.

See – Francis didn’t speak English and Arthur didn’t speak French.

Their communication was entirely based on ranting in each there’s general direction with no hope of proper understanding. They were able to get “ _Yes/No_ ”, “ _Oui/Non_ ”, _Bonjour_ and _Hello_. Most likely, if either of them bothered to concentrate a bit on what the other was actually saying, they might figure things out sooner.

However – they did not. Francis didn’t bother with listening to whatever Arthur had to say and try to figure out words, Arthur was too damn proud to do it. If a word stuck out as being familiar, neither of them saw the point in actually pursuing that path.

Their communication involved a lot of pointing at things and a lot of words being thrown around at high volume and speed, though what was being said tended to be lost in the pitch and frequency.

The only real conversation they tried having was at the very start of their acquaintance, after Arthur dragged Francis back into the cave, took his gag out and untied him. He wasn’t actually interested in roasting him, he wasn’t some sort of barbarian – clearly more than it could be said for his own townsfolk.

“So what’s your name?” He had asked, and it had earned him a blank, flat stare and a slow blink. Like Arthur was the simple-minded peasant that didn’t know how to speak properly.

He had felt a headache starting to pulse, but remembered that it wasn’t the man’s fault for not being intellectual enough to speak English.

“Your name.” He had tried again. “I’m Arthur. _Ar_ - _thur_.” He said it slowly and pointed towards himself.

“ _Ah, Arthur. Comme le roi Arthur?”_ The man started saying, and ouch, Arthur hated the way he said his name. It sounded completely unnatural, the Rs all wrong and the funny sounding U. _“J'ai adoré ces histoires, avec le roi Arthur et les Chevaliers de la table ronde_.” He started talking in French again, and Arthur realized he was a talker and this was not going to work smoothly. “ _Tu sais, ca pourrait_ _être un nom approprié pour un dragon. Ça chante pour toi_ ” And then he just…smiled at Arthur, like he said something hopelessly witty. His tone might have even been slightly charming, but as it stood, he was talking gibberish and Arthur was treating is as such. [1]

“Right.”

Then the man sighed, his bright smiles completely lost and despondent.

 _“J’ai oublié que tu es un barbare de l’autre côté de la mer et ne parle pas Français.”_ The disappointment in his voice was palpable, and Arthur wasn’t exactly sure what exactly he said, but it was surely something insulting. [2]

How can someone irritate you when you don’t even understand what they’re saying?

“You name?” Arthur asked again, struggling to keep the annoyance out of his voice and failing miserably. “Arthur.” He said, pointing at himself. Then, he poked the other man in his chest and asked again, “You?”

“ _Je ne suis pas stupide_.” He said, indignant and huffy, or maybe it was just the French that made everything sound huffy. “ _Tu es Arthur, et je suis Francis. Je m’appelle_ Francis”. [3]

“Francis?”

“ _Oui. Francis. C'est prononcé Francis_.” But really, Arthur wasn’t about to start pronouncing that awkward sounding R. [4]

“Francis it is, then.” Arthur extended his hand, Francis eyed it for a second, but then probably decided it wouldn’t do any harm to play nice.

“Arthur. _Je suis très heureux que tu ne m'a pas mangé, Monsieur Dragon._ ” [5]

They shook hands and then they just…stared at each other. Neither of them really knew where they were supposed to go from there.

* * *

Cohabitation was an awkward affair, full of shouts and huffs and overdramatic sighs. Arthur rolled his eyes so much he gave himself headaches and Francis paced around so much he was going to leave a permanent dent in the floor.

Arthur just expected to him to get up and leave at some point, but the man stubbornly stuck around, for whatever ungodly reason. At first, it was entertaining to have someone around, then it was noisy, then Francis started growing on his like fungus.

The food helped.

Arthur was, maybe, a bit resentful about the fact that he had to wear pants, but Francis kept staring at him if he didn’t. So he had to dig out the pants he had never gotten into the habit of wearing, carefully pull out his tail out of the hole specifically crafted for it.

 _Pants,_ he thought with a huff.

Humans expected you to wear pants, but dragons weren’t really all that fond of clothes. Can’t shapeshift at will with your wearing clothes all the time – you’d break out of them, and then you’d have to pay someone to do more clothes for you, which meant parting with gold from your hoard. No dragon was willing to easily part with gold from his hoard, not over something completely optional and trivial such as clothing.

_But the rabbit stew was amazing._

So he wore pants more, shapeshifted less.

Dragons also nested – Arthur had a nice, cozy warm nest of furs which he used to sleep on.

The first night there, when Arthur had wanted to retire, he went to his nest and laid down to sleep. A few minutes later, he was followed by an angry, huffy French person that pulled the bear pelt off him, pointed and moved his arms around too much.

“ _Où est-ce que je vais dormir, alors_?” [6]

“You can’t possibly be cold, I’m not giving you my furs.”

“ _C’est très impoli de ne pas m’offrir ton lit_ ” [7]

“Right. You have to sleep somewhere, too. I’ve never had a human before, I’m not sure how you’re supposed to take care of one. You can’t sleep on the floor, can you?”

 _“Si tu penses que je vais dormir par terre, tu es plus stupide que tu en as l’air.”_ [8]

“Who the hell are you calling stupid, I understood _that_.”

What followed after that was a lot of shouting. _A lot_ of shouting.

Arthur was very well aware that his temper was bad, even among dragons, and most dragons were already notoriously ill tempered.

But apparently some humans were mercurial too, because this one in particular was matching him shout for shout, even though they were both only about half aware about what they were shouting about. However, you don’t exactly need to understand what someone is shouting about to get the general feeling of where the discussion was heading.

Francis refused to let go of the bear pelt and he even grabbed another one off from Arthur’s nest. He stuck up his nose at him, turned around and left in the most dignified manner one could when dragging away huge, heavy furs.

To be perfectly honest, while Arthur was enraged and appalled over his behavior _– I could have eaten you, you ungrateful frog_ – he was also mildly impressed by the man’s stubbornness. He let him have the pelts.

* * *

Boredom was a feeling Arthur Kirkland was well accustomed to. Boredom was his old companion and his dreaded nemesis, but when you lived as long as dragons did, you needed to find ways to keep yourself entertained, lest you go crazy and start burning down a village or two.

Back home, festivals and not-so-virgin “sacrifices” were used as distraction. Physical activities that could be done with one or more partners were very popular. Flying was another favorite, and his Lady Mother had taken up sewing and embroidery.

Arthur himself was fond of the occasional deer hunt and experimenting with human cooking such as baking bread, but that last one never turned out properly. He never figured out how intensely he was supposed to breath fire over the loaves of bread and they all ended up a bit on the darker side.

Another thing he liked was reading. He could spend a decent amount of time reading without getting bored, so books were always a must for him.

So one day, he went to his bookshelf – _what? He wasn’t an animal. He got himself a bookshelf when he moved into this particular lair, he wasn’t going to leave his books sitting on the damn ground_ – and started looking for something to read. He didn’t even get to look through them, when Francis came over next to him and said,

 _“Tous les livres sont en Anglais. Je m’ennuie tellement ici, j’aimerais que tu m’apportes quelque chose à lire_.” [9] Arthur looked at him and the man seemed so disappointed while looking at the bookshelf, that Arthur had a sudden and intense realization about him.

“Oh. You’re bored too.”

It seemed so simple – of course Francis was bored too. Arthur was bored and while they provided a moderate amount of entertainment towards each other, their absolutely dreadful communication and the barriers placed by language…There was definitely a lack of intelligent conversation between the two of them.

But even if he was to fly down to the little town bellow and bring Francis some nice French books, what did the other man even like to read?

Arthur turned his attention from the bookshelf towards Francis, look at the longing way in which he was running his fingers over the spines of the books, saw him lingering on one in particular.

He almost groaned when he realized what that damn book was – _poetry_. Romantic Poetry. _The_ Romantic Poetry book, Petrarch, _Canzoniere_.

In an effort to make her youngest son more open to the idea of romance and love, Arthur’s mother had combed the land to find him a copy of it, in English – because he wasn’t about to read it and understand it in _Italian._ Arthur had been reluctant but told himself he might as well give it a try.

It had been hopelessly lost on him – while he could appreciate words and poetry and beautiful turns of phrases, he could not understand or empathize with the feelings. How do you fall in love with someone from the way wind danced through their hair?

Was it really so fickle and random?

But he looked at Francis, with the way the other man presented himself, walked around with this back straight and ran his fingers through his hair, how he smiled sometimes at Arthur – he could imagine someone like that falling in love at the drop of a hat, reading Petrarch and swooning over it, reciting all that emotional nonsense to women to make them fall in love.

_But do you really believe that?_

Arthur had been very convinced that he wanted to read something historical, based in reality, which featured battles and tactical maneuvering. His hand, however, reached out and picked up that damn poetry book that had been left unopened for years. He leafed through it and yes, there it was again – the feeling that he simply had no idea how he was supposed to understand all of it.

Maybe his general displeasure showed on his face, because it made Francis laugh at him and shake his head.

 _“Je suppose que tu n’aimes pas ça?”_ [10]

“I never understood where he was coming from, I suppose.”

“ _Tu ne ressembles pas à quelqu’un qui tombe amoureux_.” [11]

“I’m not built for this sort of…”

Francis pulled the book from out of Arthur’s hands, despite his protest. He was scanning it with his eyes, even though he didn’t understand the words, he was still looking for something.

He walked over to Arthur’s nest of blankets and sat down on it. When he finally settled on one of the sonnets, he handed the book back to Arthur with a quirk of the lips.

 _“Dis, tu peux me lire ça?”_ [12]

Arthur looked down at the page, then back at Francis’s beaming face, then back at the book, frowning. However, before he had any chance to say anything about it, Francis started… _reciting_ to him.

“ _Si ce n’est pas l’amour, qu’est-ce donc que je sens? Mais si c’est l’amour, pour Dieu, quelle chose est-ce ? Si elle est bonne, pourquoi produit-elle un effet cruellement mortel ? Si elle est mauvaise, pourquoi tous les tourments qu’elle occasionne sont-ils si doux_ ?”

And Arthur stared, open mounted, and the ease and panache which he used to recite the sonnet spoke of exercise and practice.

“Oh my God, do you know this by heart?” Arthur asked him.

Francis shrugged his shoulders at him, and patted the spot next to him on the pelts.

“ _Viens ici, Arthur_.” [13]

Really, he shouldn’t have went to sit next to him, but he was curious about how this situation was supposed to evolve, and still a bit miffed that this man seemed to understand something about concepts that had eluded Arthur for years and years. So he went and sat next him, tail tenses, wings twitching nervously, insides feeling coiled, bones vibrating.

Francis seemed to be studying him as if it was the first time seeing each other. Only not exactly, because the first time they had seen each other, Francis had been angry and scared and infuriating and everything in between, and Arthur himself had been annoyed. Terribly so.

Now – the other man was looking at Arthur with something like sincere curiosity, as if he didn’t quite know how to place him. It made Arthur more than a bit uncomfortable – sometimes he caught Francis staring at him like that, while they were eating or sitting together, when they were quiet, and it always made Arthur feel uncomfortable and made his face feel hot.

It was decidedly new territory, because he wasn’t used to people staring at him so intensely. He never considered himself particularly handsome, but he wasn’t hideous either. More than everything, Arthur was perfectly average, both in dragon form and in human form. Maybe it was interesting for someone that had never seen one of his kind before, but this wasn’t a new development with Francis. Arthur caught him staring much more frequently now, a few weeks into their acquaintance, than he had at the start.

Arthur was semi-literate when it came to deciphering humans, but it seemed like the French were a different breed altogether. Maybe it was just Francis.

The other shuffled closer, eye contact was made, and really, of course Arthur held his gaze with stubborn determination – you don’t just look away when someone stares directly into your eyes, it’s a sign of weakness. While Arthur was horribly out of his element, he at least knew that much. Keep your advantage.

Francis huffed, seemingly amused, then his hand when to the book that was laying open across Arthur’s lap. He pointed to the English words, said something in French that seemed like a request, and Arthur suddenly understood what this was all about.

Francis knew this particular poem by heart, but in French. So there is was in English – if Arthur was going to read it to him, at least he could make the connection between the two languages.

Maybe that was a plan. If they were stuck with each other for the foreseeable future, if Francis didn’t intend to leave, them it might be smart to at least try to bridge the language gap is some way.

So with this in mind, Arthur resolved to get some books in French as companions to the ones in he had in English. Compare and contrast, that sort of thing. Maybe it wasn’t as hopeless as he thought, the possibility to actually have a conversation with each other suddenly being seen as an option.

With that in mind, Arthur cleared his throat and started to read.

“What do I feel if this is not love? But if it is love, God, what thing is this? If good, why this effect: bitter, mortal? If bad, then why is every suffering sweet?”

He wanted to groan, awkwardness settling over him like damp clothes. It seemed so trite, the way everyone talked about love as if it was this feeling you simply understood and you were supposed to intrinsically _get._ Even while the sonnet was questioning it, it seemed like the natural answer to all those emotions was supposed to be love, it’s _love_ , of course it is. 

“If I desire to burn, why tears and grief? If my state's evil, what's the use of grieving? O living death, O delightful evil, how can you be in me so, if I do not consent?”

So it gets even more _delightful,_ because you can’t even control the damn thing, you aren’t allowed to offer your own input. If you fall in love, you just do and there’s nothing to prevent it?

Well, Arthur had spent his life thus far perfectly happy with not losing his head over a random person who just so happened to have nice hair and pretty eyes. He also spent his life so far struggling against himself and his own temper, anger and pride that were sometimes too much to control and flared and burst in random moments.

And that was all on him. They were his own feelings and the way he was built. It was hard enough – the idea of having his sentiments and mental balance being at the whims and fancy of _love,_ another person to have that sort of power over him…that whole thing was so frustrating and impossibly frightening.

“And if I consent, I am greatly wrong in sorrowing. Among conflicting winds in a frail boat I find myself on the deep sea without a helm, so light in knowledge, so laden with error, that I do not know what I wish myself, and tremble in midsummer, burn in winter.”

Right.

Mister Petrarch could keep his Laura and his _deep sea_ , the tremble in midsummer and the burn in winter. Whatever his Lady Mother had hoped to achieve when she had given him this book, Arthur didn’t know anymore, but he knew exactly what she had achieved now, what Francis had managed to do by asking him to read it – this whole particular experience of falling in love seemed to be a surefire way to make yourself too vulnerable for another person. Or at least, that’s how Petrarch seemed to frame it.

He turned to look at Francis and Arthur found him gazing in a manner that was too soft and too… _something_ for Arthur to properly name. Not _bad_ , but definitely unusual, though it made him look…

Well.

Arthur was aware that Francis was handsome. Very handsome by any standards. Though usually, his face was made sharper with some sort of emotion that Arthur could easily recognize – whether it his eyebrow were knitted in annoyance, his mouth twisted to reveal displeasure, eyes blazing where he was shouting, teeth showing when he was laughing. You had to be very aware of the sort of feelings written on another’s person’s face, when verbal communication wasn’t an option.

This was too soft, and maybe it was also gentle, and his eyes were very blue and very shiny in the dim light of the cave, and they were all Arthur could see, and it made something strange happen in his stomach. The warmth there had nothing to with the temperature.

Francis smiled at him, the sort of smile you’d use to woo a scared rabbit out of its hiding place, but also looked as if he was making up his mind on how he was supposed to proceed. Arthur saw the way his eyes were running over his face, how they settled on his mouth for a second too long before he thought better of it.

When Francis picked up the book from Arthur, the moment passed but the consequence of it lingered for him, his stomach twisting and his heart hammering. He looked at Francis as the man was studying the words on the page, tried to decipher intent and go over possible scenarios.

Humans were messy things. Sex with them was all sort of complicated, and that’s when it was with someone that most likely would make themselves scarce afterwards.

Arthur wasn’t a stranger to sex, but it was always an affair that brought more anxiety than anything else. He was never exactly sure how he was supposed to touch them, as they were all so much weaker physically and what if he hurt them? Then there was the _dragon anatomy_ problem and oh, that was always a hassle to deal with.

Maybe he would have been more willing to experiment with sex, if he had ever found someone that appealed to him enough to try to develop the necessary skills to pleasure them and to enjoy it. One didn’t need to be a fantastic lover for all the people they encountered in their life, they simply needed to be great lover to their chosen partner.

Arthur considered Francis, looked at his elegant features, wondered what it would be like to press their lips together and taste the inside of his mouth.

He nipped the thought in the bud, though, and when Francis asked him to read another Sonnet, he just focused on the words and didn’t let himself consider meaning too much.

Arthur read in English, Francis recited the same thing in French. Arthur put in a bit more effort to pinpoint familiar words, paid attention to the way Francis breathed when he talked in French. Like he sucked air differently and rolled it around his mouth more.

At some point, Arthur got up from his nest and went to get them both some wine. When he came back with an open bottle of wine, he found that Francis had laid down on the furs and was absentmindedly skimming through the book, running his finger over the illuminations and Arthur didn’t feel compelled to scold him for making himself comfortable. Actually, he had the urge to lay down next to him as well.

He didn’t, but he sat down, with his tail curled around himself, closer then it was proper. Francis smiled when Arthur offered him the wine bottle, took a swing out of it gratefully and Arthur’s gaze fixated on the way his throat moved while swallowing.

Francis noticed him staring and it made him smirk at Arthur while he offered the wine bottle back. Arthur made to grab it from him, but Francis kept his grip on it. It made him frown, so Arthur turned to glare at him in displeasure. He was met with an amused, self-pleased look.

 _“Je crois que tu me veux, mais tu ne réalises pas a quel.”_ [14]

“I have no idea what you’re saying to me.” Arthur said, voice steadier than he felt inside. He took the bottle out of Francis’s hand and took a deep swing out of it.

The other man laughed as he settled more comfortably across the bed of furs.

* * *

Of course, when you start thinking about someone in a potentially sexual manner, you can’t really stop. It was what Arthur realized after a few days. Whenever he looked at Francis, he was always aware of him now, aware of his body, aware of the fact that sex was a very real possibility, if Arthur wanted to indulge in it.

He wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about the idea. On one hand, it was most likely a bad idea. It was most likely a terrible idea, for a whole host of reasons. But those reasons didn’t seem that important, because the idea was just so damn thrilling.

And they were both aware of it – Francis was being extra-charming. The yelling and shouting had definitely been toned down, and it was replaced by those loaded silence when potential was heavy in the air and Arthur could smell the possibilities lingering between them. He stole glances towards Arthur, he touched him more when they passed each other and it sent shivers through his body.

Arthur had kept his promise to himself, got some books in French for him and terrorized some French peasants in the process of retrieving them. He brought them to Francis in a bundle, and then suddenly, they were sitting next to each other every night, taking turns in reading to each other and comparing English and French sentence structure. They even tried awkwardly pronouncing things – Arthur would never be able to properly pronounce some of the sounds and he still found it weird, the way Francis said his name, the way both of them struggled with foreign twists and turns of language.

But it wasn’t jarring anymore, Arthur realized with a jolt. It was endearing, how _Arthur_ sounded when the Rs were rolled differently and the U was breathier.

Francis seemed to be paying attention to him more, focused on the things they tried to say to each other, bit his lip and leaned in closer. They sprawled across the furs together, very aware of the fact that they were purposefully not touching each other, and if their fingers brushed against each other or their thighs touched – it made Arthur’s body tense and his nerve endings perk up.

And the fact that Francis wasn’t bridging the distance between then, the fact that the decision of _if_ and _when_ was left sorely on Arthur – well, _that_ was exciting and thrilling and extremely arousing as well.

 _Here you go, you get to pick, you can make this decision, I’m leaving you in charge –_ that was the message Arthur was getting. He liked the idea of being able to pick and prod and push at this new dynamic between them and be able to put it off as long as he wanted to.

He could kiss Francis and find out whatever he wanted about him, how his mouth tasted and what sounds he made if Arthur were to sink his teeth in the flesh of his throat, if he arched or trashed or tightened his fingers in Arthur’s hair when he came. All those things that Arthur found himself thinking about, they were all possible and within reach when he finally decided to take them.

But there was on thing stopping him – fantasies rarely matched reality, and the reality was that Arthur’s experience with sex had never lived up to his expectations of it.

So what if it ended up being terrible and disappointing?

* * *

One early morning, when Arthur woke up with bleary eyes and a slight hangover, he realized that Francis had fallen asleep next to him on his pile of furs.

This was new.

Arthur racked his memories of last night to see what he remembered about it, but he could only come up with this following scenario – both of them had been more than slightly drunk, scrambling and twisting over their words in an attempt to make sense of them. Arthur remembered laughing a lot, until his face hurt, and Francis had poked at the dimples in his cheeks. It all made him feel pleasantly warm inside, so closing his eyes and dozing off wasn’t far off from that.

But now, here they both were. Arthur was awake earlier than he should be, staring at Francis’s sleeping face, at the elegant cheekbones, the Roman nose, widow’s peak – he wanted to run his fingers over all those features.

Then he thought about last night and it struck him how easily they could get along, how Francis stumbled into his life and seemed to make room for himself, whether Arthur wanted to or not. And it was so comfortable to have him there. And both of them yelled and shouted at each other and made a mess, but it was comfortable to pick things up right afterwards.

So maybe if sex was terrible and disappointing, they’d still be able to look at each other afterwards, instead of running for the hills?

But even that was a risk he was willing to take, because suddenly, Arthur had no idea how he could get out of bed and go about his day, without kissing Francis first. He wanted to kiss like he wanted to hoard gold, like Francis was made of the stuff and he couldn’t possibly resist it any moment longer.

Dragons had notoriously bad impulse control.

Arthur leaned over Francis, stopped an inch away from his mouth. Their noses were touching. He lingered in the space between breaths, so he felt the change in them, felt a puff of air over his own lips, when Francis’s breath hitched and he opened his blue, blue eyes to meet Arthur’s. Fluttered eyelashes, to blink away the sleep from his eyes, Francis held Arthur’s gaze without moving. He stayed unnaturally still, held air in his lungs.

As a dragon, you learn how to fly when an older family member not so gallantly pushes you off a great height and lets you figure it out by yourself. It takes about a second for you to discover that you can do it, flap your wings and take off, but in that second you feel the drop, the plunge and then it all settles, muscles start working on their own, action is automatic and your brain stops.

It was like that.

Arthur crashed their mouth together without any finesse, pushed his tongue into Francis’s mouth when the other man gasped, tasted him and found he liked the flavor. There was no good reason to have waited for this, Arthur couldn’t get enough of him now, he pressed their bodies together and grabbed Francis’s hair so he could pull at it, only because he wanted to.

Francis’s arms went around Arthur’s shoulders, ran over the green scales on his skin, blunt nails scrapped over them, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

Kissing wasn’t enough, all of a sudden, Arthur wanted to bite his skin and lick it and leave bruises, he wanted to hear gasps and moans and he wanted to feel the other’s body against him. His fingers started grabbing and pulling at the fabric of Francis’s shirt, frustrated that it was there in the first place. There was a tear, the sound of ripping and then both of them stopped kissing to look down.

A huge tear, a irreparable one, Francis’s shirt was ripped open down the middle and Arthur was holding two distinct pieces of fabric in his fists. _Oh_. Francis was looking at him incredulously and Arthur wondered if he was supposed to apologize?

“Sorry?” He tried, with a raised eyebrow, but he really wasn’t sorry at all, because it took him about a second to rip the thing completely and force it down Francis’s shoulders.

At least Francis didn’t seem offended by the damage, he started laughing and let himself be undressed. It counted as extremely good progress, because at least now, Arthur had access to all this milky soft skin with downy dark blonde hair. It was very appealing, and he desperately wanted to leave purple marks on it with his mouth, so he bent down over Francis and sunk his teeth in the fleshy curve of his shoulder.

And there is was, the gasping, the moan that followed, it made arousal flare hotly in his body. He ran his tongue over the area and Francis’s hand cradled the back of his head, he arched against Arthur, _yes, more, do that, keep doing that, go lower, good._

Maybe they should have been doing this from the start, because it was so much easier to understand each other.

Arthur’s wings twitched and opened when Francis touched them, obviously fascinated by their movement. They weren’t particularly sensitive, but they were still skin, and all of Arthur’s skin was feeling hot and his blood was singing in his veins. He wanted with a fierce intensity that demanded to be sated, now, now, _now_.

There were still too many clothes between them, and pants were always particularly offensive, but never more than in this moment. He bit Francis’s nipple, savored the sound it pulled from the other man, sucked on it to ease the sharpness of his teeth. He decided the best and most satisfying course of action would be to rip the pants off him completely, just as he had done with the shirt.

However, Francis stopped him with a very amused, “ _Non, Arthur, non._ ”

Damn.

He frowned, and Francis put both hands on Arthur’s chest to push him back onto the bed of furs. The action took him by surprise, so he sat on his tail painfully.

“This would be so much easier if you wouldn’t be wearing pants in the first place.”

But Francis ignored him, sat up smoothly and took of his pants, motioned for Arthur do to the same thing. Shimming out of pants was harder when you had a tail to take into account, but he was determined to get out of them out of the way. When he finally managed to take off his pants and throw them away, he turned back to look at Francis. Arthur had been expecting him to crawl back to him, but _no._

“ _C'est impressionnant.”_ Francis said, motioned towards the general direction of Arthur’s dick. That made him groan in response, because the sheer curiosity and fascination that Francis had on his face was embarrassing, “ _Je ne m'attendais pas à ce que ce soit comme ça.”_ [15]

“Please stop talking, you’re ruining the moment.”

“ _Bien, tu es définitivement pas être facile._ ” [16] with that, the man had the sheer audacity to turn around and _leave_ to look for something, and Arthur definitely screamed in frustration and buried his face in the furs.

This was a horrible idea. This was terrible.

Who the hell made him believe that trying to have sex with an insufferable human being such as Francis was a good idea? He wanted to strangle him, possibly afterwards dig a hole for himself and never get out of there.

 _How_ in the world was he still hard after that?

Rationally this was terrible and humiliating, but his dick wanted Francis more than it cared about Arthur’s bruised ego. So while Arthur was silently contemplating shifting into his dragon form and taking off, his body all but sang when Francis came back and pressed himself against Arthur’s back.

“ _Arthur_?”

“What do you want now?”

 _“Je pensais que c’était clair”_ [17]

He was _so_ infuriating, why did his voice sound so…light and breathy and amused?

Arthur turned around and dislodged Francis from his back, sat up only so he could glare at the other man. The angry blush was still heating up his cheeks, but he was confident he could pull of a decently impressive glare even under these circumstances. Francis wasn’t much intimidated though, he smiled at Arthur and offered him one of the small bottles of fragrant oil he kept around for moisturizing.

Well, he supposed that was good thinking on the Frenchman’s part, but it still didn’t mean he was forgiven for leaving like that. Arthur took the little bottle from him and set it aside for the moment, considered whether or not he wanted to pursue the scolding bit further or not.

The decision was made for him when Francis pushed him into the furs, wings getting caught uncomfortably underneath him. He didn’t get the chance to properly protest to it, because Francis straddled his hips and got on top of him. The weight of his body was pressing against Arthur just _so_ that he couldn’t even think about why he was angry anymore.

Francis leaned over him, pressed his forehead against Arthur’s and rubbed their noses together and stole a quick kiss.

“Sorry?” Francis said and the sound of his raspy _Rs_ and the amusement and the slight uncertainty in the articulation…it was so endearing it made Arthur melt. If that wasn’t enough, Francis ground his hips against Arthur and the pressure and friction and _oh, god, yes, do that again –_ one of his hands grabbed Francis’s long, blond hair, tugged at it sharply, while the other found its place on the small of his back.

Francis wanted to kiss him slowly, to explore the inside of Arthur’s mouth and nip at his moist lips. It was less forceful, but still felt like it was the same sort of hungry. More deliberate.

 _Is that how you like to be kissed_? Maybe.

Arthur was not an especially patient man, but Francis didn’t seem like he was in any hurry to get anything done. It was mildly frustrating, but on the other hand – it’s not like either of them had anything _better_ to do. They could spend as much as Francis wanted on kissing and grinding against each other.

Either you can burn something to a crisp in a few minutes, or you can roast it over and extended period of time.

This slow languorous pace, with Francis’s fingers dancing across his skin and their cocks rubbing together - to Arthur, it felt as if he was being roasted from inside. Arousal was a low burning fire inside his abdomen, steady and growing until he thought it was going to choke him. His hand on Francis’s back moved lower, he pressed blunt fingernails in the flesh of his buttocks. It took him by surprise too, because he felt the muscle tense under his touch.

It didn’t have the desired effect, though, Arthur wanted a more dramatic reaction. So the best thing he could think of was to pull his hand away slightly and bring it back down with some force across Francis’s ass. There was a loud, satisfying smack and the effect was immediate, Francis ground his hips downwards, but instead of the yelp that Arthur had been expecting, he moaned, rumbling low and raw.

Well – wasn’t _that_ interesting?

He did it again and again, each time with a little more force, and it made Francis arch his back and his throat. His lovely pale throat that already had a bruise on one side – it was too tempting for Arthur to resist, so he sank his teeth into it again, sucked a matching purple stain on the other side of it.

His fingers tightened to a painful degree in golden curls, used them as leverage to pull Francis’s head further, until the other couldn’t possibly move anymore. Arthur wanted to look at him, see how lovely he was with marks on his neck and his lips wet with spit, cheeks red and panting.

Before he said something stupid, like compliment Francis on how beautiful he looked, he decided to smack Francis across the ass again, and then one more time for good measure. The way his eyelashes fluttered when his eyes closed to enjoy the sensation made pride swell up in Arthur’s chest.

He caressed the heated, abused skin on Francis’s backside, then slapped him again in quick succession, _one, two, three._ Francis cried out in response, this choked-up, pleasured sound that made Arthur want to stop everything else so he could just push inside Francis to fuck him.

Arthur pulled him down again by the hair, kissed him with bruising force, running his very rudimentary French in his head, to see if he had vocabulary to voice this particular desire. Well, he could try, at least – common courtesy dictated that if you wanted someone to let you fuck them, the least you could do was ask in a way that made sense to them.

“Je veaux….erm…” That was the extent of that request, he didn’t know how to phrase it beyond that. And his accent was terrible, which he already knew.

It made Francis start to giggle. Which should have been rude, should have annoyed Arthur, but fondness was stronger. Francis leaned forward, nuzzled the crook of Arthur’s shoulder and dropped a kiss against the side of his jaw.

“ _Yes,_ ” Francis said, “I want to…” And with that, he seemed to frown, considering what sort of word he should use. It made Arthur grin, because it was ridiculous, but it was also very, _very_ endearing.

“Fuck?” He supplied usefully. That wasn’t a verb you found in the poetry books.

_“Je suppose que c'est le mot.”_

“You’re supposed to say, _I want you to fuck me, Arthur._ ” He punctuated each word with a short slap against Francis’s ass. The sounds he made were _so_ enticing. 

“I want you to fuck me, Arthur.” Francis told him, keeping his eyes a little bit too open, too big, like he was playing at an innocence that had no business in this scenario, but it looked good on his face. And he smirked at Arthur after he said it, _bastard,_ but it was so attractive. It wasn’t just what he said, but his voice – it was raw and throaty from arousal, and he had been panting and…

“Shit,” Arthur closed his eyes and cursed himself, and cursed Francis as well. He was sure now that he’d never been so turned on by another person before, be them human or dragon. He smacked Francis’s pink flesh on instinct, “Say that again.” Another slap.

“I want you to fuck me, Arthur, please. _S'il te plait_?”

Francis got off from where he had been straddling Arthur’s lap and grabbed the little bottle of oil from where Arthur had set it aside. He pulled out the cork that closed the bottle with his teeth and spit it away. Francis grabbed Arthur’s wrist and poured some of the oil over his fingers, then he leaned back on his elbows, pushed up his knees and spread his legs for Arthur.

In theory, Arthur knew the mechanics of this and how he was supposed to prepare him, but his brain decided to go suspiciously quiet as he was staring at the display that Francis was offering him. It made Francis laugh, like he was used to sort of reaction, but he was also much too pleased with himself. That snapped Arthur out of his daze, and he moved between Francis’s open thighs.

Francis decided to help him, took Arthur’s hand and guided it towards his opening, pushed two of Arthur’s fingers inside himself. Francis sighed at the intrusion, but his body was beautifully relaxed around Arthur’s digits, hot and welcoming and tight. He also knew how he liked it, showed Arthur the kind of pressure and movement he should use.

Arthur leaned over to kiss him, mouth open, wet and sloppy. He was so relieved that Francis wasn’t shy and was willing to show him how he liked to be touched. Fumbling blinding and trying to experiment with what someone liked might be occasionally seen as a bonding experience, but it was infinitely better when your partner knew what they wanted and showed you. Arthur wasn’t a damn mind reader, but too many humans in the past had thought so.

He felt for the little bundle of nerve endings inside of Francis’s body, twisted and crooked his fingers to massage it and that earned him a low, long moan. He kept up the same movement, the crook-twist-push that made Francis’s blue eyes roll and sent visible shudders through his body.

Arthur push another finger inside Francis, and it slipped in just as easily. Until now, at least, this whole endeavor seemed like it was heading in a positive direction. Francis was clearly used to this, and enjoyed it and he was willing to try it out. So far, so good.

The average dragon cock was significantly thicker than a human’s, with more ridges and bumps, and much longer. While Arthur himself was only a bit over the average length for a dragon, the problem with most partners was not _length_ – it was the thickness, and the prominent bumps, ridges and veins that made things – _complicated._ It was never a _smooth slide_ by any means.

It always took a brave human to muster up the courage and determination to ride dragon dick – but back home, there were brave humans that took one look at Arthur’s and decided they weren’t _that_ brave.

But Francis, _bless him_ , wasn’t like that. When Francis deemed himself sufficiently prepared, he put his hands on Arthur’s chest and pushed him away, made him lay back down on the furs. It peeved Arthur slightly, but he was willing to let Francis be on top this time. It would be easier for him to control how much of Arthur’s dick he could take, how fast he could go. With that in mind, Arthur told himself he was going to sit there and, hopefully, enjoy having Francis ride his cock.

More oil now, but this time it was poured directly in Arthur’s lap. He gasped when Francis used his hands to spread it over, using the opportunity to test the length and girth of Arthur with his hands, to explore the texture of his skin and hard, raised flesh. Arthur heard Francis suck in a shocked breath, probably at the realization that _yes_ , it was all hard, all of it got hard and unyielding, _yes,_ he did have enough blood for it, dragons were just built differently than humans.

When Francis climbed in his lap, he took a deep breath before he started lowering himself on Arthur’s cock. Arthur watched him intensely, and saw him wince and flinch even as just the tip went inside. Sure, it felt amazing to feel himself slide slowly inside of Francis’s body, but it wasn’t something he could properly enjoy when he saw his face constricting in pain and felt his muscles tense. Arthur hands went to grip at the Frenchman’s hips, not guide him down, but to hold onto him. He rubbed soothing circles with his thumb over the bone there.

Francis was about halfway down on his cock when he stopped, thighs shaking, eyes closed, sweat beading on his skin. He was mumbling something in French that Arthur couldn’t understand, but it was definitely not about how pleasant it was.

Right. What was he supposed to do now?

“Francis? Francis.” He raised himself up at the middle, put a hand against Francis’s back and pulled him towards his chest. He hugged the other man against him, caressed soothing circles over his spine. That helped, he felt Francis take a deep breath and his body relaxed, and the pushed down against Arthur.

The air was absolutely knocked out of Arthur’s lungs at that, when he felt Francis force himself down on his dick. And he took him in completely, up to the hilt, and he was so hot inside and tight and _perfect_ , Arthur wanted to sob against him. Arthur was sure that he might be able to come just by feeling Francis’s body clench and tense around him, it such a strong sensation he had to grit his teeth against it.

But Francis wasn’t moving and his back was taunt, and Arthur felt his ragged breaths against the shell of his ear. And no matter how absolutely delicious it was to be inside him, and no matter how much he wanted to pound him until neither of them remembered their names, he couldn’t. Arthur wanted to hear Francis making those happy, breathy sighs and moans he did before, he wanted Francis to desperately want it and to have him grinding and writhing against Arthur.

“Francis?” He ran his fingers through blond hair, cradled his cheeks in both hands, made the other man look him in the eyes. Francis’s brow was knitted in concentration and discomfort, so Arthur kissed him to distract him from it. He kissed him slowly and carefully, with long, sweepings licks inside his mouth.

Arms went around Arthur’s shoulder, and Francis’s legs moved against Arthur. He settled more fully in his lap, ankles crossing at his back, pulling himself closer so their skin could touch everywhere. Arthur pressed another kiss against his mouth, then his cheek, his jaw. He started leaving kisses and licks across the neck he’d marked before, tasted the bruised skin there. Then the breathy sighs started again, the tension in Francis’s body melting away.

He didn’t know what you said in French, what words were used to praise someone, but probably wouldn’t have used them even if he knew. It would be too much, if Francis understood him, so he said it in English and hoped the some of the sentiment would come across.

“Look at you, you’re so amazing. And you feel _so good_ , and you can take it all, you’re just right for me.” He smoothed the hair out of Francis’s face, touched their foreheads together and held his gaze. Blue eyes were glassy and his pupils were blown up, Arthur smiled at him and stuck out his tongue to playfully steal a taste of his lips with a lick.

That made him react, made Francis grab him by the back of his head and crash their mouth togethers in a desperate, bruising kiss. Arthur let him plunder his mouth, felt something needy and vulnerable in the way Francis kissed.

“Can you move for me, Francis, hmm?” Arthur asked against his mouth. “Are you alright, do you feel good now? Can you move for me, love? I want to see you riding my dick, I want you to come on my dick, I want to feel you come on my dick.”

“Yes, _yes_.” Francis moaned back. Whether he understood Arthur or not, it wasn’t the point. He understood how much Arthur wanted him, what he wanted from him, he understood how thoroughly enthralled Arthur was by him.

“Move, love, move for me. You’re so great, you feel amazing, I want you to feel good. I need you to, I…”

“Arthur, I… _hah_.” And Francis rolled his hips against his and both of them gasped at feeling of it.

The position they were in didn’t allow for too much movement, but then again, Arthur wasn’t about to encourage any sort of aggressive rhythm. The deliberate, unhurried pace made things build up slowly, it allowed him to feel all the small twitches and grips and pushes.

It was so good, Francis was good, and Arthur could probably waste away the day just like this, with Francis in lap, slowly fucking himself on Arthur’s dick.

And Francis was moaning and gasping, his cock deep red, leaking at the tip and painfully hard between their bodies. He was blabbering things in French, sounded rough and raw and choked, but in a good way, in the best way possible, and Arthur felt like he was about to burn out of his skin. He was filled to the brim with all these emotions – amazement and arousal and pride, an intense sense of pride because something as beautiful and shiny and golden like Francis was writhing in his lap.

He kissed him again, more tongue and spit than anything else, he wanted to taste him again, wanted to swallow his moans and feel his gasps. Arthur’s hand went to grab Francis’s dick, he wasn’t about to leave him like that. He moved his hand in counter-rhythm to Francis, made him push his hips forward more abruptly, increase the speed.

And it was easy to make him come like that, his muscles gripped Arthur fiercely and he didn’t want to resist the sharp drop against the cliff either.

It felt like breathing fire, it felt like _singing_ fire.

And after the waves of orgasm passed, he was scorched on the inside and felt like he was floating aimlessly adrift, like he was at sea with his eyes closed and refusing to open them, for fear of what the consequences might be. There was an unfamiliar tightness in his chest, even though his limbs were loose and his bones felt that they had been melted away.

“Arthur?”

Francis called out to him, voice just as wrecked as Arthur felt, so at least he wasn’t alone in this.

“Hmm?”

He refused to move, had grabbed onto Francis and was holding him tight enough to bruise.

“ _Regarde-moi, s'il te plait_.” There were fingers running gently through his hair, and they settled to cradle the back of his skull, “ _Regarde-moi.”_ Francis coaxed his head back and Arthur’s eyelids moved rapidly, he tried to clear the glaze from his sight and get himself to focus again. [18]

What came into focus was Francis, looking at him like Arthur had put his hands through his ribcage and pulled out his lungs out.

Arthur thought he was so incredibly beautiful that he bit his tongue, afraid he might actually say so.

But whatever it was that Francis hoped to find on his face, he found it, because then he was _smiling_. His blond hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his face, and he was red in the face and looked exhausted, but he was beaming at Arthur and…

Pride. Pride was swelling in his chest, and he wanted suddenly to whisk Francis away, just like they were, and take him back to England and show him off to his parents and his brothers, and everyone else, whether he knew who they were or not. _Look, look at him. I did that. I made him look like that. You can’t touch him, but look how gorgeous he is._

Possessiveness, ownership and hoarding came naturally to dragons, as easy as breathing. You perceive something as being yours and you take it, but it was the first time Arthur felt it was aimed at a human.

* * *

* * *

The question wasn’t whether or not he wanted to move, the question was whether or not Francis _could_ move. His legs felt like they were going to give out if he tried to use them, so it was best not to challenge them at the moment and see how they would fare.

When he had been little, he fell out of a tree and got horribly bruised. Luckily, the tree was in their garden, and his mother heard him, so she went to check up on his and found him crying. She had to help him back into the house – luckily, he didn’t break any bones during his fall, but he got horribly bruised and had to stay in bed for a while.

It had been terrible, because it had also been one of the first moments in his life when he realized how vulnerable he could be. Not because of the fall, but because he felt so very helpless afterwards and his emotions had been all over the place.

Arthur was running his fingers over Francis’s spine, drawing circles and marks over his sweat slick back. The gesture was absentminded, and soothing, and if he focused just on that, he would easily fall asleep here. He kept his eyes closed and his breathing steady, but his mind was a jumble of half formed thoughts and desires.

The truth was that Francis had been bored, and he had been missing – well, _sex._ He was used to sex and to having someone willing next to him in bed whenever he wanted them. Being low on option was not a problem he had ever faced.

But you tend not to want to sleep with the people that were so readily willing to feed you to a dragon, so it had been out of the question to go back to town, even after he realized that Arthur wasn’t going to eat him. Staying here had been as good of an option as any, and he _liked_ Arthur. Then he had realized that Arthur liked him back.

But Arthur was about as prickly as a damn hedgehog and creatures such as that needed to be coaxed out of their shell. You can’t go around kissing them before their ready, they’re going to turn around and run for the hills. So Francis had decided at some point – if he had nothing better to do, he might as well try to charm him, as much as you can charm someone that doesn’t speak the language of love.

And Francis was good at charming people – he knew he was good at it. Surely there was no greater test to his abilities, than to charm an English dragon that didn’t know he wanted to be charmed.

However, while he was lying naked in the bed of furs next to Arthur, Francis realized he sorely miscalculated some things. He was just not very sure _what_.

In his life, Francis had been with more lovers than he cared to count. Jealous lovers and selfish lovers, lovers that only wanted to please him and the occasional sadist that wanted to _hurt_ him, those that were painfully earnest and those that were consummate liars. They came in all shapes and sizes, and he couldn’t remember any of them leaving him feeling like this, like he fell right back out of the damn tree.

He opened his eyes and found Arthur staring at him with this sort of confusion that Francis understood very well, the sort of thing that translated to _Now that I have you, what am I supposed to do with you?_

Indeed, what a good question.

If he was being honest, he hadn’t been sure how you were supposed to have sex with a dragon, and there had been a lot of curiosity driving him forward. He had wanted to see if he even _could_ have sex with Arthur, considering the way he was built.

His miscalculation came from a combination of factors that he hadn’t considered: the first of it being physical intensity. He hadn’t expected all the biting and hair pulling and spanking – _that_ had been lovely and delightful and surprising. It was the kind of of pain which always had a pleasant edge to it, made his skin tingle just thinking about it.

Then, there was the matter of dragon anatomy and size, which was completely overwhelming and painful and, for the first time in a long time, he had even considered stopping and not pursuing it further. But even when it hurt, it was still – too full and too stretched and too _much_ , and he wanted to pull away from Arthur in one heartbeat and cling to him in the next.

That sort of pain had a particular effect on the mind, especially when it was combined with the fierce arousal Francis was feeling – it made you feel wildly vulnerable and exposed, like the pleasure-pain balance could easily skew one way or another. Depending on your partner, and either you had someone you were willing to latch onto and trust them to help steer you towards the right side, or you didn’t. 

But then – Arthur had started kissing him and touching him and murmuring things to him. You didn’t have to understand the words to hear the fondness and the praise and the _feeling_ in his voice, and Francis…really _really_ wanted Arthur to fuck him.

Putting aside the general boredom and the lack of sex he had for the past weeks, aside from the fact that he was curious about how dragon-human sex worked, apart from being genuinely fond and attracted to Arthur, for whatever reason –

Maybe it was because they didn’t understand each other, because Arthur didn’t understand what the _Canzoniere_ was about, because Francis himself didn’t understand what made Arthur tick, because they couldn’t talk to each other with words -

Francis wanted Arthur to fuck him, and he really, really wanted to be…good for him. Because even if he didn’t understand what Arthur was saying, he could understand the tenderness in his voice and the wonder in his eyes.

When Francis took him inside, Arthur had looked at him like he was some sort of precious thing that fell into his lap and the best damn thing that happened to him. And Francis realized in that very instant that he was absolutely doomed, because he’d be willing to do just about anything for Arthur to keep looking at him like that.

And he had no idea what do to with this feeling, still didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it, because there was something painful pressing against his chest, and he wanted to crawl into Arthur’s lap. He wanted to Arthur to run his fingers through his hair and tell him how good it was to be inside Francis, and look at him like he was grateful for his presence.

He also wanted to run away.

Francis took comfort in the fact that Arthur seemed just as torn.

There was a silence between them that vibrated with potential, like they were standing on opposite sides of a great cliff, with roaring waves and a furious sea below. Which one of you is supposed to take the first step?

Francis’s pride didn’t want to let him do it first, but luckily for him, he didn’t have to. He was looking at Arthur, studying the expression of his face, so he saw the moment of decision, the reckless _Screw it, I don’t care what happens next_ right be before Arthur bridged the distance between them. He came closer, put one arm around Francis and cupped his cheek in the other, pulled his face and kissed him.

Arthur’s tongue licked at his lips and he opened his mouth readily. He felt a shiver going through his body when he felt Arthur’s hand flat on his back, running down his spine and over his pleasantly tingling bottom.

Then Arthur grabbed a handful of his flesh, sunk his fingers into it, and it made him want to wiggle his ass. He broke the kiss and bit his lips, held Arthur’s gaze. The other man was studying him, searching for something on his face.

“Arthur, I…”

_“What do you want? What do you want me to do, what do you want me to give you? ”_

Arthur’s emotions were always written right across his face. Even if he tried to hide anything, Francis doubted he could, and he was very grateful for it. Arthur was bleeding all this want, need and fierce possessiveness, like he was going to fall apart if Francis didn’t let him have him again. It was always intoxicating, to see someone needing you, in a way that clearly showed that no one else would do. Arthur didn’t want him because he was horny, Arthur wanted _him_ and no one else would do.

So Francis reached behind, grabbed a handful of Arthur’s hair and pulled him closer. Arthur let himself get guided on top on Francis, pressed his chest against his back, nuzzled the curve of his shoulder. Francis sighed happily when the other man started peppering kisses and bites over the skin he could reach – the affection, coupled with Arthur’s weight pressing over his back…it was comforting and soothing, grounded him in the present moment.

He arched his spine, let his head back and one of Arthur’s hands came rest against his throat by instinct, it seemed. Palm open and fingers splayed over his neck, he didn’t put too much pressure in the action, but it was enough for Francis to feel it and feel all the smarting bruises that Arthur bit into his skin before. It sent a shudder through his body.

He was also very aware of the fact that Arthur’s dick was pressing between his cheeks and he could feel him getting hard again. Good lord, he was large, and the thought of taking him inside again was thrilling and daunting and made heady arousal curl in his stomach. Realistically, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to do it like that again today, not with how sore and stretched he felt, but Arthur still felt…heavy and warm and _nice_.

“I want you to make me come again,” he whispered to him, and he pushed his hips upwards and rolled them against Arthur’s cock. There was a groan against the shell of Francis’s ear and fingers pressed harder in his throat, and it was the perfect edge of painful.

He was still slick between his cheeks, from oil and cum, so when Arthur spread him open with one hand and started rutting against him, the slide was smooth. Francis felt all the knots and bumps of his length, pressing and moving. The soreness from when Arthur had fucked into him was there, but the pressure was just enough to remind him how it felt, it made him dull ache turn sweet and teasing.

Arthur’s hand on his buttock was squeezing the flesh there hard enough to leave bruises in the shape of his fingerprints. That was perfect, absolutely perfect, Francis wanted to walk around for days with their passion drawn across his body, he wanted Arthur to look at him and see the red and purple marks as proof of how much he wanted Francis, he wanted to touch the love bites on his neck and push against them, feel them sting and feel low-burning desire coursing through him.

He tried to turn his head around to kiss Arthur, but the palm on his neck wasn’t allowing it. Francis whined slightly, strained his throat in Arthur’s grip, and the other man understood – his hand moved upwards in a slow caress, grabbed a hold of his jaw and forced Francis to look at him and…and…

Arthur was looking at him like _that_ again, that hungry-needy-amazement that was so dominating and raw and electric, Francis wanted to drown in it.

Vanity – it was definitely the vanity inside him reaching out to Arthur and wanting to be stroked and kissed and praised. His vanity was a monstrous thing that sometimes roared and raged and demanded attention, demanded to be soothed in just the right way, but that part of him was purring and begging, for _yes please more, please, yes, just like that, look at me like that, touch me like that._

Arthur let go of him so abruptly – let go of his throat, let go of his ass, broke eyes contact with him. Francis was so disappointed he didn’t even try to stop the frustrated groan that escaped him. And Arthur got up from his as well, got on his knees between Francis’s open thighs and sat back on his heels.

Francis wanted to turn around and yell at him, but then there were hands on his hips, pulling him upwards on his knees. He had been sitting so comfortably on his stomach with Arthur pressed up against him, though, that he still wanted to complain about the change in position.

“Really, that’s very rude, not to warn before you….”

_Smack!_

The slap against his ass came before he even had the change to finish what he wanted to say, and it came down with _force._ Whatever it was that he wanted to add, it got choked by a moan, the stinging, tingling sensation adding to the arousal. He dropped his head on his crossed forearms, moved his hips. By now, he was so hard that his erection was bobbing heavily with his movements.

Behind him, he heard Arthur chuckle, and it sounded dark and rough and a little bit mean, but it only made him bend his spine even more, present himself to him like a cat. If he could, he would _purr_ at Arthur, only if it made him do something, anything.

But it was easy to understand what someone wanted in bed – at least in this, they seemed to speak the same language.

“ _If I knew this worked so well with you, I would’ve done it since day one._ ” 

And the slaps came down one by one, with varying degrees of intensity, on both sides, until his flesh was stinging and too warm. He was definitely doing to feel it tomorrow, but it was _just right_. When he felt like it was too much, Arthur stopped and his hand started caressing the skin that he had been hitting before.

Francis was panting and whining, he was torn between yelling at Arthur that _that he was a terrible, teasing monster and an absolute brute for not doing something to ease his suffering_ and begging him to _please touch me, please kiss me, please do something, I’ll be good, but you have to…_

His breath hitched when he felt an oiled finger caressing his opening. Not pushing inside, but gently going over the muscle there, prodding a little, testing to see his reaction to it. Francis bit his lips and moaned in anticipation, and Arthur took it as encouragement to push that one finger in him.

It felt good to have something to grip to, and the sting and stretch from before making him feel fuller now. And it was erotic, a lovely moist slip and slide, aided by the fluids from before. Francis shuddered all over when Arthur found his prostate and decided to take advantage of his sensitivity.

“ _God, you’re so_ …” the gentleness of his exploration was off-set by a short smack against his thigh, “ _You’re so responsive and fun to play with._ ”

Arthur put a hand on his hip and pushed him to the side, guided him on his back. Francis pulled his knees up to give him a better view, better access to keep fingering him. The view part was very important, and most likely the reason why Arthur wanted him on his back – he was looking so intensely at Francis’s face, like he needed to see him to assure himself that he was alright, that he was enjoying himself.

It was hopelessly endearing and it made Francis want to…well, want to be beautiful, to put on a bit of a show for him, to look at Arthur, and _look_ at him, not break the eye contact because it finally felt like they were both on the same page and they understood each other flawlessly.

Arthur bent down and to look at Francis’s cock, like he wasn’t completely sure what he was wondering what to do with it. Francis decided not to say anything, lest he spook the man – especially when felt Arthur’s warm breath over him. He bit the inside of his cheek let Arthur make his damn mind about what he wanted to do.  
  
Then without giving him any notice, Arthur put his mouth on him and sucked him in, and Francis wanted to sob in pleasure. While Arthur lacked the finesse that came with experience and exercise, he made up with sheer enthusiasm and determination – he wanted to make Francis feel good, so he was willing experiment with this. How much of Francis’s length could he swallow, what pressure worked best, how fast should he be sucking?

If Arthur wanted to use him as an experiment for sucking cock, Francis could only sit there and oblige him willingly. Plus, Arthur fingers were still twisting and massaging him from the inside – he felt as if he was going to explode. His hips moved on their own accord and he pushed against Arthur’s mouth, making him gag a little, but as long as Arthur wasn’t stopping him, he saw no reason to stop either. And Arthur was going to let him fuck his mouth as he wished, he was going to come embarrassingly fast.

Arthur, Arthur, _Arthur,_ he wanted to scream his name so they could hear it echo inside the room. _Yes, Arthur, you’re good. Yes, Arthur, thank you, Arthur, please let me come in your mouth, please don’t stop, please, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur._

He felt like his whole body was singing and vibrating for Arthur, the aftermath of orgasm left him feeling dizzy-drunk and unable to catch his breath. He closed his eyes and tried to lower himself back down into his body, because it was as if he was floating and didn’t quite know how to get back.

The lost, dizzy-drunk sensation didn’t last long – he barely felt it before Arthur kissed with the sort of single-minded ferocity usually reserved for feral cats. But it was alright, it was exactly what he needed, an excuse to put his arms around Arthur and hold onto him, to feel their bodies pressing together, to feel the weight of him and the taste of his own release in Arthur’s mouth.

He wanted to claw at Arthur’s scale-freckles, push his skin away and crawl into his chest, he wanted to touch him and be close to him and never, _ever_ had to admit to it. He’d rather die than admit to being this desperate for someone, much less for an average looking English dragon that didn’t even understand what the point of _Il Canzoniere_ was.

He felt Arthur shudder against him, still very much hard, which was unacceptable, but he also didn’t want to do anything other than stick to Arthur and cling to him and maybe keep kissing to chase away the thoughts that were already forming in his head. Francis tightened his legs together and encouraged Arthur to straddle him, put his dick between Francis’s thighs and push against him.

Francis ran his hand through Arthur’s hair gently, cradled the back of his head and let the other man chase his release. Arthur’s finger were grabbing onto any part of him that they could reach, never satisfied to just hold on, he was running his nails along Francis’s thighs one second and then he was licking into his mouth and biting his lips.

“You have me here, Arthur, and I want to see you come for me.” He whispered in Arthur’s ear, kissing his cheek and his jaw and the side of his throat. He nuzzled against the curve of his neck and bit the skin there just a little, “Come, come, for me, and show me how much you want me.”

And he knew Arthur didn’t understand what he was saying, but maybe he really liked Francis’s voice, maybe he could hear the request in his tone. Their bodies reacted so well together and there was a spark between them that had to be – _just there_ , in the way they fit. He felt Arthur tense and arch against him, felt cum splatter on his thighs.

Then, Arthur melted against him and Francis let him enjoy the glowy relaxation of it, kept rubbing patterns over the small of his back. Arthur breath was still shaky, warm and wet, until he collected himself and got off of Francis. He didn’t roll away, though, kept close and put his arm around Francis’s middle, used his shoulder as a pillow.

Francis turned his head to look at him, at his ugly eyebrows and the dark blonde lashes, the emerald green scales on both sides of his face. He gave into the impulse of drawing the contour of his upturned nose. The action made Arthur scrunch said upturned nose and shake his head, groaning – it made Francis smile, because it was _cute._

Then Arthur blinked away the daze from his eyes and looked at Francis seriously – as seriously as someone could when they were a sweaty, flushed mess with their hair sticking to their forehead.

“ _You’re not bad. For a human. For being French.”_ He sounded so raw, that regardless what he wanted to say, the only things Francis got from him were softness and exhaustion.

“Whatever you say, Arthur, I’m sure you’re right.”

_“I would like to talk to you. Properly. I’d like to understand what you’re saying to me, at least half the time, that is.”_

“Why did you never learn French? There’s so many things I would…”

“ _Do I have learn French for you?_ ”

“English just doesn’t sound right, Arthur,”

“ _There you go again, with that pronunciation, how does your throat even make those sounds…_ ”

Then Arthur made this very raspy sound and stuck his tongue out at Francis, as if he was completely disgusted by it. Francis had the feeling that he was supposed to be extremely insulted, but he was very sated and tingly and sore, and Arthur’s cum was drying on his skin and Arthur was still pressed up against him even while he was making faces and…

It’s very hard to get self-righteously insulted over something vague when you’re all happy, warm and naked next to someone, when you’re more aware of all the ways in which their skin is touching yours than the things they might be saying.

“I think I like you, Arthur.” And he put a hand over his eyes, sighed and felt his cheeks hurt from how much he was smiling.

 _“What are you even saying to me, you could just be reciting poetry all the damn the time, for all I know.”_ Arthur left, started really laughing, and kept talking between snorts and giggles, “ _Please tell me you’re not, I wouldn’t be able to stand that. Bloody Petrarch and his damn obsession with pretty hair_.”

Francis understood “ _Petrarch_ ” and really, there were worse times that this to bring up poetry. This might be the best time for it, so maybe there was some sort of ‘ _charming lover’_ facet to Arthur’s personality. The thought made him snort.

“I feel there might still be hope for you to understand Sonnets, Arthur.”

“ _You keep saying my name like that and I…_ ”

Arthur raised himself on his elbows to look at Francis. He looked at him curiously, bit his lips and Francis could see the different emotions playing out on his features. He was cradling Francis’s cheek and ran his thumb across his mouth.

“Arthur, I…” his words were swallowed by a kiss, by lips moving against each other and Francis opened himself to it. There was something very gentle and almost sweet in the kiss, like Arthur was trying to learn how he was supposed to be with him now that the heat and fight and clamor of earlier had passed. 

“ _Just like that, yeah. It’s the way your pronounce it, it’s…I like the sound of it”_

**Author's Note:**

> [1] - Ah, Arthur. Like King Arthur? I used to love those stories, with King Arthur and the Kings of the Round Table. You know, I think it's an appropriate name for a dragon. It suits you.  
> [2] - I forgot you're a barbarian from the other side of the sea and you can't speak French.  
> [3] - I'm not stupid. You're Arthur, and I'm Francis. My name is Francis.  
> [4] - Yes, Francis. It's pronounced Francis  
> [5] - I'm very happy you didn't eat me, Mister Dragon  
> [6] - Where am I supposed to sleep?  
> [7] - It's very impolite not to offer me your bed.  
> [8] - If you think I'm sleeping on the ground, you're stupider than you look  
> [9] - All your books are in English. I get so bored here, I wish you would bring me something to read  
> [10] - I suppose you don't like it?  
> [11] - You don't look like someone that falls in love  
> [12] - Say, Can you read this to me?  
> [13] - Come here, Arthur  
> [14] - I think you want me, but you don't realize it.  
> [15] - That's impressive. I didn't expect it to be like that.  
> [16] - Right, you're definitely not going to be easy.  
> [17] - I thought it was clear  
> [18] - Look at me, please. Look at me.


End file.
